


dear friend

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, You've Got Mail AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: Rupert Giles and Jenny Calendar are fiercely at odds in the workplace. Online, however? That’s another story.





	1. subject: tech help

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: Tech Help_

 

_Ms. Bennet—_

_You left your email address at the bottom of your well-crafted and extremely useful online article, stating that if your article didn’t answer all the questions one had about computer usage in the twenty-first century, you were open to any and every remaining question that one might have. Seeing as your article did mention—multiple times—your passion for helping those in need of assistance, I hope that my emailing you directly isn’t too informal or indecorous._

_To explain my plight, I shall give you a brief summary of my professional situation: I have recently left my curatorial position in England in order to raise my daughters in their native America. My previous vocation did not require the extensive computer usage that this one does, and the only colleague who might be able to help me through the learning curve is continually and wholly antagonistic towards me. It has become difficult to work under these circumstances, but I dislike the thought of giving my colleague the satisfaction of knowing that computers are too much of a challenge for me to handle._

_In short, I am sending this email to inquire if you are willing and able to answer a handful of my questions about computers. If you have the patience for asinine inquiries, it would be greatly appreciated._

 

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

_(postscript: I did appreciate your online “handle”—is that what the children are calling it these days? I took a leaf out of your book—or, laptop, as it were—when creating this email address.)_

* * *

 

“I don’t like America,” Dawn announced, clinging to Giles’s sleeve. “It’s too sunny and I go to bed too early and the clocks are all wrong and everyone talks funny—”

“ _You_ talk funny,” said Buffy, who, even after three years in England, had still stubbornly retained her American accent.

Giles gave her a reproving look.

“Sorry Giles,” said Buffy, not sounding all that sorry. Still, for all her bravado, she too had a firm grip on Giles’s sleeve.

“You know,” said Giles, “at _some_ point, you two are going to have to let go of me and go in to school.”

“Don’t wanna,” said Dawn.

“Don’t  _have_ to,” said Buffy.

Giles sighed. “Would you like me to walk you in?” he said.

Dawn nodded emphatically. Buffy said loudly, “I’m not a _baby,_ Giles, _gosh,_ ” letting go of his sleeve, but she fell into step with him as he gently tugged Dawn along.

Sunnydale Elementary was bright, garish, and smelled like a mixture of crayons and cafeteria food. Giles was suddenly very glad that he’d taken the extra time to pack the girls their lunches, because whatever they were serving in that cafeteria looked _atrocious._ Good lord, did he miss England. “Dawn,” he said, stopping outside the kindergarten classroom, “you know if you need anything—”

“Tell the teacher to call my Giles—my _dad,_ ” Dawn corrected herself, making a little face. “How come they won’t know what I say when I say _call my Giles?”_

Giles wasn’t sure what to make of this. Buffy, however, said helpfully, “Everyone has a dad, but _we_ have a _Giles,_ ” as though having a _Giles_ was something akin to being the queen of England—or the president of the United States, given their current location.

Giles tried not to grin. It didn’t work. “You’ll do wonderfully, dear,” he said, and knelt down, pressing a kiss to Dawn’s cheek. She gave him a nervous smile in return. “I can’t wait to hear about how much fun you’ve had. You remember how Buffy loved primary school?”

“But this is _America,_ ” Dawn persisted. “And they call it _elementary_ school. What if it’s different?”

“Gi-iles!” Buffy whined from behind him. “You still have to walk me to class!”

Giles gave Buffy another reproving look (she stuck her tongue out at him) and gently tugged on Dawn’s braids. “Remember what I told you?” he said softly. “If it’s too different for you girls, we pack up and move right back to England. No questions asked.”

Dawn’s face relaxed at this. “So if I come back home and I _hate_ it—”

“I’ll book the plane tickets,” Giles promised. “But _only_ if you give this first day a fair chance, all right? Don’t go in expecting things to go wrong.”

Dawn seemed to give this concept serious consideration. Then she nodded, looping her small arms around Giles’s neck for another hug.

“Oh!” said Giles, and hugged her back. Even after three years, he still wasn’t quite used to how _tactile_ these girls were when it came to showing their affection. “Right,” he said, pulling back. “I love you sunshine.”

“I love you too sunshine!” said Dawn happily. When she was two, she hadn’t understood why Giles had called her _sunshine,_ and had always responded in kind; it had become something of a mantra in their family. “And can I have a cookie when I get home?”

“You can have two,” said Giles seriously, and stood up, giving Dawn a last wave. She waved back, earnestly watching him and Buffy as they headed down the halls.

As soon as she was sure they were out of Dawn’s view, Buffy reached out, tucking her hand into Giles’s. “Did you mean that?” she said. “About booking the plane tickets?”

“Yes and no,” said Giles truthfully. “If you two are genuinely miserable here, staying might not be the best idea. But the adjustment period is going to be a bit rocky, so we might wait a few months before making any solid decisions on going. Or staying, as it happens.”

“Okay,” said Buffy. “I guess I just—I mean, I’ve missed it here a little. Even if Dawn hasn’t.”

“Which is why we’re here,” Giles reminded her. “Because you miss your home and Dawn never got the chance to get to know it.”

“What about your home?” Buffy sounded genuinely troubled by the concept. “You had to leave it just like us.”

“Nonsense,” said Giles. “My home is where you girls are.”

They had reached the fifth-grade classroom, and so at first Giles thought that this was why Buffy pulled him to a stop. But then she yanked clumsily on his sleeve, pulling him down into a hug of her own. “I love you sunshine,” she mumbled into his tweed jacket, voice wobbling.

“I love you too sunshine,” Giles whispered back, throat tight. “You’ll do brilliantly.”

Buffy pulled back, giving him a small, lopsided smile, and patted his cheek. “You will too,” she replied, and stepped backwards into her classroom with a little wave.

Giles took a second to watch her hang up her backpack in a small cubby marked _Buffy Summers,_ and then he smiled to himself, a bit less nervous. His first official day at work was still daunting, but it helped to know he was at least capable of getting his rambunctious daughters settled in school.

* * *

 

Ms. Calendar apprehended him almost as soon as he was through the library doors. “I left a note in your faculty mailbox,” she said without preamble. _“And_ I sent an email to your staff account.”

“Really?” said Giles. “Well, you’ve had a very busy day, then, haven’t you?”

Ms. Calendar pressed her lips together, then said, “You’re going to have to learn how to use the online library catalogue, you know. It’s how we check out books.”

“As I said in the staff meeting,” said Giles, frustrated, “I have no skill with computers. Until I feel more confident in my abilities—”

“—which you never will, because you’re a total technophobe—”

“—the library will be using the card catalogue,” Giles finished, doing his best to ignore Ms. Calendar. “I feel as though your lack of compassion for my situation—”

Ms. Calendar stared. “My lack of _compassion?_ ” she repeated incredulously. “I’d be more _compassionate_ if you weren’t coming into a new school and completely upending procedure just because _you_ don’t have the patience to let me teach you basic computer skills!”

“And I should be falling all over myself to learn from the woman who just called me a _total technophobe?”_ Giles retorted. “You’ve been openly disdainful of my contributions since I suggested them—”

“Rupert, it’s going to take _forever_ to set up a card catalogue,” Ms. Calendar persisted. “We have a working system that takes maybe fifteen minutes, at _most,_ to learn. You’re creating something that’s inefficient and outdated for your own convenience, and I _can’t_ support that.”

Giles felt himself blushing, and resented it. “Forgive me if I don’t want to spend time with you for longer than I have to,” he shot back. “The lack of trust you have in my ability to create an efficient card catalogue is _appalling,_ especially when our departments are supposed to work so closely together—”

“Yes, they _are!”_ Ms. Calendar looked furious. “They _are_ supposed to work together! Computers and libraries go hand in hand! Which makes your computer illiteracy even _more_ appalling in this day and age!”

“I am not computer _illiterate—_ ”

“Then you should be able to operate a simple online catalogue without turning this place into the Library of Alexandria just to make yourself feel more at home!”

“The Library of Alexandria _burned down,_ ” said Giles, who was now so incensed that his responses were beginning to border on nonsensical.

 _“Burn with it,”_ snapped Ms. Calendar, and turned on her heel, storming out of the library.

Giles watched her go, furious, and turned to the computer, glaring at it as though it was the one at fault. “ _You_ burn with the Library of Alexandria,” he told it. “You burn into obscurity,” and then he busied himself with the beginnings of a card catalogue, fueled by spite and the lingering memory of the fire in Ms. Calendar’s eyes.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Tech Help_

 

_Fitzwilliam!_

_First off, call me Liz. Ms. Bennet was my father._

_Don’t you dare call your questions asinine. No question is too stupid—that’s what I always tell my students, and I think it definitely applies here. And hey, sounds like you’ve got a pretty intense learning curve to work with, especially what with all the other stuff you’re working on. Moving is always hard, and moving with kids? Intense. (Not speaking from direct experience here, but I do work with kids on the regular and I can barely handle field trips, so. Extremely impressive on your part.)_

_Since we’re doing introductions, and since my online article was mostly about computer basics, I’ll sum myself up pretty briefly. I’m a spinster computer teacher in a small town, no kids, one terrible cat who is always trying to eat my socks. I’m very big on helping people who need it, and honestly, any colleague who’s on your case about not knowing enough, but doesn’t actually make any effort to help you themselves? Kind of a horrible person. Sticking it to them is a noble cause that I’m happy to assist you in._

_Don’t worry too much about informality; I’m a pretty informal girl. I hope that won’t be a problem? Reading your email took me straight back to Regency England etiquette. Please take that as the compliment it’s intended; I bet you write fantastic love letters._

_Peace!_

_Liz_

_(PS: your handle made me laugh so hard I almost spit coffee all over my laptop. I appreciate the implication that somewhere out there is an incorporeal Darcy.)_

* * *

 

“Hey, totally hypothetical question—”

“Whenever you start a sentence like that, it’s always something terrible,” said Anya with interest.

“Thank you _so_ much for the faith you have in me,” said Jenny. “Anyway. Hypothetical question, but what state has the lightest sentence if I wanted to murder someone?”

“Is this about the hot new librarian?” Anya asked casually.

“Yeah,” said Jenny, then, “What?” then, indignant, “He’s not _hot—”_

“Agreed pretty fast there at first, though, Jen,” said Anya, grinning.

“I wasn’t _listening,_ ” said Jenny, “and he’s _not—_ listen, that whole rumpled-professor thing isn’t _sexy,_ it’s _boring._ He’s _boring._ ”

“You know, expressing your emotions through hate sex instead of murder has all of the benefits and none of the jail time,” Anya suggested.

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Jenny very loudly.

“ _Fine,_ ” said Anya, “but _don’t_ think we aren’t going to talk about how you want to have hate sex with the hot new librarian at _some_ point.”

“I  _don’t_ want hate sex with him!” Jenny objected. “I want to throw him out a window!”

“Kinky,” said Anya. Off Jenny’s please-change-the-subject look, she rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “Do we have to be those boring teachers who talk about school even when we aren’t in it?”

“Well, I’m headed to the public library for that coding workshop thing, so I’m technically still on the clock,” Jenny pointed out.

“Those children are nightmares,” said Anya, nose wrinkling. “That little Harris boy got jam hands on my nice skirt last week when he tried to hug me.”

“Xander thinks you’re the _prettiest girl ever,_ by the way, if Willow’s word is anything to go by,” said Jenny, amused.

“Willow is the only tolerable child I have ever met,” said Anya. “Ever.” She paused, then preened. “Xander thinks I’m pretty?”

“Yes,” said Jenny. “A ten-year-old thinks you’re pretty. Try not to let it go to your head.”

“It’s just such an ego boost to be appreciated,” Anya informed her. “It’s hard work to look this good, you know—”

“Mmm,” said Jenny, trying not to laugh. “So are you planning to ask him out, or—”

“Don’t be _ridiculous,_ Jenny, he is a _child,_ ” said Anya indignantly. “I’m just glad that I’m someone’s formative teacher crush.” She pulled her compact out of her purse, checking her lipstick. “I’m not _Hallie’s_ teacher crush anymore, apparently—”

“Anya,” said Jenny, “what’s the rule?”

“I don’t remember,” said Anya childishly, snapping the compact shut to glower.

“The rule,” said Jenny, “is that we do not talk about your ex, because if she ghosts you without any explanation, she isn’t worth your time.”

Anya wavered, then gave Jenny a tired, reluctant smile. “You’re right,” she said, then repeated it, as if trying to believe it. “You’re right.”

“Good,” said Jenny, and reached across the table to squeeze Anya’s hand. “So you still feel like hitting up the library with me?”

* * *

 

Willow Rosenberg lit up as soon as Jenny entered the library, nearly knocking over four patrons in her excitement to rush across the room and tackle-hug Jenny around the waist. “Ms. Calendar!” she chirped. “Ms. Calendar Ms. Calendar Ms. Calendar I want you to meet my friend Buffy! She’s so nice and she’s from _England_ but she talks like an American but her _sister_ has an accent because her sister grew up in England and they’re so cute and so nice and so—”

“All right, slow down there, kid,” said Jenny, ruffling Willow’s hair. “How much sugar did you have today?”

“A  _whole bunch,_ ” said Willow blissfully, nuzzling her face into Jenny’s stomach.

“Yeah, that’s the vibe I’m getting,” said Jenny, amused. She glanced over at Anya, who was watching her with distaste and mouthing _jam hands._ “How about you introduce me to this lovely new friend of yours? You said she was from England?”

“Well, she was _born_ in America,” said Willow breathlessly, pulling back to take Jenny’s hand, “but her mom died, and then she and her sister went to live with her mom’s best friend over in England. And then he decided to move them back here ‘cause she missed America so much, and she says they might stay! And her dad is so nice too, Ms. Calendar, he—” She stopped, grinning. “Buffy!” she called. “Mr. Giles!”

Jenny froze.

Across the room, so did Mr. Giles, whose eyes were flitting between Jenny and Willow with an utterly horrified expression. “Ah,” he said. “It’s this sort of day, isn’t it.”

A small blonde girl with her hair in pigtails and her forearms covered in Disney Princess Band-Aids skipped over to the both of them. “Is this the teacher lady?” she asked curiously. There was the slimmest trace of a British accent in her voice, but only if you were really looking for it.

“It is!” said Willow, who seemed to be practically vibrating with delight. “Oh my gosh my two _favorite people_ are meeting—”

“Hey, how come I don’t make that list?” Xander objected, hurrying up to them.

“You’ve already _met_ them both, Xander, keep _up,_ ” said Willow, giggling.

“I like your Band-Aids,” said Jenny to Buffy.

“Thanks,” said Buffy. “I rode my bike through some bushes and Giles made me put them on.”

Mr. Giles hurried up to the group, looking just as uncomfortable as Jenny felt. “Am I to assume you’re in charge of the coding workshop here?” he said awkwardly.

“I’m always happy to help people who are looking to learn new things,” said Jenny, giving him a terse grin.

“Well, that’s an admirable trait,” said Mr. Giles, giving her a small, thin smile right back. “Those who disregard the value of new ideas for a misguided sake of efficiency have always bothered me.”

“I really feel you!” Jenny agreed, her smile so wide it was almost plastic. “Especially when those _new ideas_ are really just badly-disguised old ones that went out of style a decade or two ago!”

The children were exchanging confused looks. “Um, Miss Teacher Lady?” said Buffy. “Are you gonna teach us about computer things? Willow said you taught computer things—”

“That is _exactly_ what I do,” said Jenny, reminding herself (with difficulty) that strangling Mr. Giles in a public library probably wasn’t a very professional move. “Let me get things set up for today’s lesson.”

* * *

 

Her phone chimed while she was in the middle of telling off Warren Mears for trying to search up internet porn (where _were_ that boy’s parents, anyway?). She checked it while she was cleaning up the lab.

* * *

 

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: RE: Tech Help_

_Elizabeth—_

_Forgive me, but I find addressing you as “Liz” a bit too informal to handle at this juncture. I suppose we’ll have to ease my Regency sensibilities into nicknames a bit gently. Besides which, Elizabeth is a lovely name, and I rather like the concept of receiving tech support from one of my favorite literary heroines. I have a great appreciation for the force of her determined dislike, especially as it translates into determined love._

_And on the subject of love, at the risk of seeming overconfident, I am sure I do write good love letters, although I have not been in the position to write any as of late. Being a single parent has been my sole focus for the last three years, and it’s a bit difficult to add any kind of romance into the mix, let alone the kind of romance that inspires long, sprawling letters expressing my adoration._

_Your willingness to help me in my time of need is more than appreciated. At the moment, my most pressing question is this: how can one trust the validity of information found on the Internet? Books can be cited, credentials can be checked, but can the Internet be trusted in the same fashion? It was by sheer luck that I stumbled across your article, and it was the only one that made a whit of sense to me. Is there some easier way to weed through the faulty information a search engine gives me and find a completely trustworthy source?_

_It’s the ease with which incorrect information can be spread that makes me so wary of computers. It feels too simple to delete lines of text without leaving eraser marks. The physicality of knowledge is what has always appealed to me—and there, again, are the tragic drawbacks of being a Regency gentleman in an all-too-modern world._

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

_(though you may call me Fitzwilliam if you like)_

* * *

 

Jenny didn’t realize she was smiling until Anya passed by, did a double-take, and said, “You are grinning like an idiot at your phone. Did you have coffee while I wasn’t looking?”

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Delighted to assist_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_For now, I’ll stick with calling you Mr. Darcy. It’s pretty much every girl’s dream to stumble across one, isn’t it?_

_Your question seems more philosophical than a request for tech help, but I’ll do my best to answer in kind._

_It’s definitely true that parts of the Internet can’t be trusted, and that to find valid and valuable information, you’re going to end up having to sort through a whole lot of stuff you don’t actually need. But the same can be said about libraries, right? They hold a whole bunch of knowledge within them, and not all of that stuff is going to be personally useful or relevant to what you’re looking for. There isn’t a Dewey Decimal System for the Internet, which makes learning how to find things a little bit trickier, but it’s still a skill that can be learned and honed._

_I think I have a question for you in return: what really makes you so wary of online information? Sure, there are inflammatory articles and misinformed research studies, but those exist in print just as much as they do online. You mentioned something about “the physicality of knowledge,” and I’d really love to know a little more about what that means to you._

_Liz_

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Delighted to assist_

_Elizabeth,_

Giles stopped, frowning at the blinking cursor. His mystery Ms. Bennet had made a very good point. His dislike of computers didn’t stem completely from the possibility of misinformation being more widely spread: there were other, more personal reasons that he found himself distrustful of them. Putting these reasons down in writing, however, felt incredibly daunting, especially when he wasn’t entirely sure what they were.

“The physicality of knowledge,” he echoed, thinking. She had been right to pinpoint that phrase. There _was_ something about the tangibility of books that tugged at him in a way computers didn’t.

After a minute or two, he began to type.

* * *

 

_Your question was astute. It took me a little while to formulate an answer._

_I suppose there’s something painfully impersonal about computers, at least to me. It feels as though we have distilled the getting of knowledge to its most basic form, removing the physical search for it in favor of expediency. As much as I claim that learning how to use a computer would be a painfully slow process for me, I’m well aware that, if I spent a good ten minutes trying, I could master the concept fairly quickly. This is what bothers me._

_Books smell musty and rich. They have a comforting weight in your hands. You can page through them absently or flip through with ferocity. They have a sense of finality to them that computers do not. Ink, after all, cannot be erased, but you can click away from a web article and it ceases to exist for you._

_Books are steady and constant; computers can be learned and forgotten in the blink of an eye. The concept of rapid-fire knowledge bothers me if it comes at the expense of being able to immerse yourself in what you are learning. It feels as though the value of learning is being erased, with no sign of it ever being there._

* * *

 

He considered the email, then added:

* * *

 

_I do apologize. This has transitioned from a simple email about tech support into something of a philosophical debate. If this isn’t what you signed up to help me with, I completely understand, but my initial mission statement does still apply: I have many questions about computers, and your answers thus far have been illuminating, intelligent, and witty. Any further insights would be greatly appreciated._

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

* * *

 

This was, of course, when the telltale clatter of footsteps and cacophony of voices announced the arrival of Buffy and her friends. Getting up from his desk, Giles exited his study, observing the group fondly; Buffy hadn’t ever really connected with the children at her English primary school, and it warmed him to see her finally bonding with other children her age. “Would any of you like snacks?” he offered. “Lemonade? Biscuits?”

“ _Biscuits_ is British for _cookie,_ ” Willow whispered to Xander.

“I wanna cook—uh, _biscuit,_ ” said Xander, frowned, then amended, “may I please have a British biscuit cookie thing?”

Giles rather liked Buffy’s friends. “Yes, you may,” he said. “Buffy, Willow, do either of you want—”

“ _Lemonade,”_ said Buffy with gusto, racing past Giles and her friends into the kitchen.

“Don’t run into anything!” Giles called after her, wincing a bit as Xander immediately charged after Buffy. He exchanged an amused smile with Willow, who looked very used to this. “So you’re not the running type, then?” he asked her as they headed towards the kitchen.

“I’m more the, um, reading-about-running type,” said Willow a little nervously. “Especially since I’ve seen Xander crash into a whole bunch of things ‘cause he isn’t very careful.”

“Well, at least you’re learning from him,” said Giles. “Sort of.”

Willow giggled.

Buffy was already (sloppily) pouring lemonade for Xander and Dawn, chattering on about something or other. Willow hurried to sit down at the table with them, leaving Giles to look for the biscuits and half-listen to their conversation. “I was the fastest kid in my primary school whenever we did races—” Buffy was saying, which made pride swell in Giles’s chest because _yes she was._

“Faith Lehane is fastest here,” said Xander. “Except we’re pretty sure she trips people.”

“Then she’s not _really_ fastest, is she?” Buffy pointed out.

“I beat Janice in hopscotch,” said Dawn, in the plaintive, half-hopeful voice she used when she wanted to be a part of the conversation. “I jumped the _farthest—”_

“Good for you, dear,” said Giles, giving Dawn a small smile over his shoulder before finally locating the biscuit tin.

“Ms. Calendar played hopscotch with me and Harmony Kendall last week!” said Willow suddenly, as though just remembering.

“Ew,” said Buffy. “Harmony Kendall?”

“Ms. Calendar?” said Giles before he could stop himself.

“You met her at the library, remember?” said Willow helpfully. “She’s _really_ nice.”

“She liked my Band-Aids,” Buffy added proudly.

Giles did his best to reconcile the dreadful hurricane of a colleague with the apparent patron saint of fifth graders. It really wasn’t working. “Ah,” he said. “I actually—work—with Ms. Calendar.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” said Willow, lighting up. “Are you two friends? I bet you two would be friends.”

“Biscuits!” said Giles loudly, all but slamming the biscuit tin down in the middle of the table, which created a sufficient enough distraction for him to escape back to his study. He’d check back in on them _after_ they stopped talking about Ms. Calendar. As much as he disliked the woman, he wasn’t the sort of man to turn children against her simply because of a few workplace quarrels. The temptation to do so, however, was strong, and so he turned the computer back on, hoping for some sort of a distraction.

He had received a reply from Ms. Bennet.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Tangibility_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_Not gonna lie, that was the sexiest email a guy’s ever sent me._

* * *

 

Giles laughed out loud. He pressed a hand to his mouth, hoping the children hadn’t heard, but he could still feel himself grinning.

* * *

 

_Flirting aside, I have to say I share your appreciation for tangibility. Knowledge is something that should be savored, not sped through. I think there’s a problem with your outlook, though: you’re assuming that the natural human inclination is to consume knowledge indiscriminately without thought or reason. Everyone has their own personal relationship to the things they want to learn, and I don’t think that the medium you learn it in changes that._

_The thing is, though I love talking broadly and philosophically, you emailed me asking if I could help you improve your relationship with computers, so let’s narrow the scope of this conversation. I think the real problem is that, for you, computers are never gonna feel as real or as solid as books. I’m not sure what to do about that, but I do know what I myself love about computers, and maybe it’ll help for you to hear a little bit more about their better aspects._

_See, I grew up without easy access to information. My local library was pretty much five bookshelves and an extremely bored clerk, and I’d finished all the books there before I was ten. In high school, computers started becoming a much more accessible possibility, and the Internet was gaining traction, and it felt…like this whole new world had been opened up for me. After such a long time with so many questions, I wanted to submerge myself in all the new things I could possibly learn._

_Books are tangible. You’re right about that. But books can also be full of pedantic, academic language that leaves me feeling lost. Computers may dilute knowledge, but they also make knowledge so much more accessible to people who might not have the time or the patience for books. You’re a scholar, Mr. Darcy, and that means you’re always going to have patience for books—but if you think for a moment about the people who don’t, I think computers might start making a little more sense to you._

_This has turned into a monster of an email! Something about the way you write just…gets to me. I feel like we’d have some killer conversations if we ever met up in real life._

_Liz_

* * *

 

Giles felt his ridiculous grin transitioning into a slow, soft smile. This wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been anticipating Ms. Bennet losing patience with his philosophical tangents, and yet she had listened, appreciated, and responded in kind.

“Giles?” Buffy called from the kitchen. “There was—uh, we spilled—”

Duty called. With one last look at Ms. Bennet’s email, Giles headed into the kitchen to find the entire pitcher of lemonade in pieces on the floor. “Ah,” he said, amused. “Well, who spilled it?”

“How come you’re smiling?” said Buffy warily. “This was your _favorite_ pitcher!”

“I received a very nice email from a friend,” said Giles. “And really, Buffy, I’m just glad no one got hurt. You get yourself into enough scrapes as is. Willow, Xander, do you two mind helping Buffy mop this up after I clear the broken glass?”

“Willow didn’t do it—” Xander began loyally.

“I’ll still help,” said Willow immediately.

“Me too!” Dawn piped up.

“It’s much appreciated,” said Giles, giving Dawn an affectionate smile. “For now, though, do you all mind clearing out of the kitchen? I don’t want any of you getting cut.”

“We’ll go hang out upstairs,” said Buffy, looking extremely relieved, and led the children out of the kitchen, careful to steer Dawn around the broken glass.

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Tangibility_

_Elizabeth,_

_Apologies for the delayed reply. My older daughter shattered a pitcher of sentimental value almost immediately after I sat down to read your email. I spent a good amount of last night clearing things up. My girls are ten and five, respectively, and they tend to run around the house in bare feet. One has to be very meticulous in my house when things break._

_I must confess that your last email all but took my breath away. There is nothing I appreciate more than someone with passion for their chosen vocation, and the way you speak of computers…it’s enlightening, to say the least. I hadn’t ever considered them as a more accessible source of knowledge; I suppose it’s because I personally find it so tiresome to use them._

_Still, you’re right in encouraging me to broaden my horizons. Thinking of computers in the terms you describe them make them seem much less cold and clinical. I’m not planning on starting a computer fan club, mind, but I suspect I’ve been eased into liking them. Such are the power of your words._

* * *

 

Again, Giles found himself wavering. The polite thing to do would be to conclude the email, thank Ms. Bennet for her assistance, and move on. She had, after all, given him what he had asked for, if in a less straightforward way than he had anticipated.

He didn’t do that.

* * *

 

_If you’re amenable, I should like to discuss other matters with you, ones outside tech support. It’s rare that I enjoy a person’s company so much through letters alone; I suspect you’re right about the conversations we’d have in person. I can only imagine how charming and warm you must be in your daily life._

 

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

* * *

 

He sent off the email before he could lose his nerve.


	2. subject: other matters outside tech support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. y'all will notice that this says "chapter two" instead of "chapter four," and that's because i decided to change the length of the chapters!! chapter one is really just the first three chapters smushed together. no content has been lost in the slightest, and MORE content will now come every update :D
> 
> also u can't tell me ten-year-old buffy wouldn't love she-ra.

“You’re emailing _Mr. Darcy?”_ Anya repeated skeptically. “Is this a case of Colin Firth brain?”

Jenny threw a dish towel at Anya. Ada Lovelace uttered a shrieky meow, tried to bat at the towel as it flew by, and fell off the counter, only barely managing to land on all four paws. “Careful, baby,” Jenny said in the direction of Ada Lovelace. Then, to Anya, “My online handle is Robot Elizabeth Bennet, remember? He created an email account to talk to me, and since he didn’t know who I was, he called himself Mr. Darcy.”

“So he’s hitting on you,” said Anya.

“It’s not like that,” said Jenny immediately.

“Isn’t it?” said Anya, in that earnest, half-confused way that took all the bite out of her remarks. “He read your article, he liked it, he wants to be the Mr. Darcy to your Elizabeth Bennet.”

Jenny scoffed, doing her best to ignore her growing blush. “Look, if anyone’s doing the flirting, it’s me,” she began, then winced. _Not really proving your point there, Jen._ “And that’s just because—I’m flirty, you know? It’s what I do. He’s a perfect gentleman—”

“You can be a perfect gentleman and also be unbearably sexy,” Anya pointed out. “Look at Colin Firth.”

“We’re not talking about Colin Firth, Anya,” Jenny said firmly. “We’re talking about my mystery Darcy, who hasn’t once said anything flirty to me—”

 _“It’s rare that I enjoy a person’s company so much through letters alone,”_ Anya said in a very bad British accent, stepping up to Jenny and batting her lashes. _“I can only imagine how charming and warm—”_

“Okay, there was _context,_ ” Jenny protested, stepping back. “It wasn’t _half_ as sexy as you’re trying to make it sound.”

“Jenny, you dummy,” said Anya patiently, “it sounds sexy because it _is_ sexy. Because it’s a pick-up line. Because he thinks you’re super hot and he wants to shove you up against a carriage and—”

“Why a _carriage?”_ Jenny picked up Ada Lovelace, who had been methodically shredding the mail left on the floor.

“Regency England,” said Anya, as though this should have been obvious.

“Oh, of _course._ ” Jenny rolled her eyes, placing Ada Lovelace on the dining room table and hurrying to put away the dishes Anya had dried. “Look, I’ve exchanged all of four emails with the guy, and it’s all been in a completely professional context—”

“You told him that he’d sent you the sexiest email you’ve ever received,” Anya shot back.

“I tell _you_ that you send me sexy texts!” A dish slipped out of Jenny’s hand; she only barely caught it. “I use the word _sexy_ very liberally, Anya, it is 2019 and I am allowed to call things _sexy_ without getting the third degree about my romantic inclinations—”

“Sure,” said Anya knowingly, handing Jenny a stack of plates.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Other matters outside tech support_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_I am every kind of amenable. It’s been way too long since I’ve talked to people outside my best friend and my cat. Sad? Perhaps. But if we’re going to be friends (and I hope we are), I think that honesty is the very best policy._

_Your kids are ten and five? Pardon my French, but that sounds like a massive fucking handful, especially as a single dad. My kudos. I’d love to hear a little more about them. I’m a little awkward around babies (they’re so small!!) but I’m all about helping kids learn and grow: it’s part of the reason why I went into education. I was actually a third grade teacher for a hot second a few years ago, and I had a lot of fun with that._

_I’m writing this email very surreptitiously and in a faculty meeting—_

* * *

 

“Ms.  _Calendar,_ ” said Mr. Giles from next to her.

Jenny yelped, nearly dropping her phone. “Jesus!” she said loudly. Principal Flutie gave her a reproving look; she ignored it. “ _What_ is your problem?”

“My  _problem,_ ” hissed Mr. Giles, directing a pointed look at Flutie (who had gone back to briefing the rest of the staff on the new school schedule), “is that this is an _important meeting_ that you should be paying attention to.”

“Ah, yes,” said Jenny sardonically. “The new school schedule, which was already sent out in a memo anyway. Gosh, it's an absolute  _necessity_ for me to pay attention to this information that I already know!”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing,” snipped Mr. Giles, sitting down next to her.

“Excuse  _me,_ this seat is _taken!”_ Jenny objected.

Mr. Giles rolled his eyes, then said, “There are absolutely no seats left in this room, Ms. Calendar. Where am I _supposed_ to sit?”

“Anya went out to get a muffin and that seat belongs to her,” said Jenny. “Sit on the floor.”

Mr. Giles gave her a long, extremely annoyed look, and then removed his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. This only served to make Jenny resent him _more;_ it was utterly unfair that such an asshole should look so good in his sweater-vest ensemble. “I think I shall sit here until told not to,” he said, and when Jenny opened her mouth, he immediately added, “by someone whose opinion I hold in _any_ regard.”

Jenny kicked him under the table. He fell off his chair. She went back to typing on her phone, deleting the half-finished sentence and starting anew.

* * *

 

_Here’s a question from me to you: how do you deal with legitimately terrible people? I have a coworker the same kind of awful as yours, and he seems to have made it his personal mission to undermine me whenever he possibly can. It’s like he doesn’t respect or care about anything I bring to the table, and it really sucks to have to deal with it on a daily basis—especially when our departments are intended to work in tandem. What’s your strategy when it comes to people like that?_

_That’s a terrible note to end an email on. How’s this one? I managed to eat breakfast today for the first time in…gosh, three months? Most of the time I just grab coffee while I’m heading out the door, but today I swung by Starbucks on my way to work, and oh my god do those people know how to make scones. Absolute heaven._

_Liz_

* * *

 

Jenny sent the email just as Mr. Giles pulled himself up from under the table, glowering furiously at her. “ _Wholly_ unprofessional,” he informed her, “ _completely_ uncalled for—”

“Shove it up your checkout desk, library boy,” said Jenny, turning back to the faculty meeting.

In his satchel, Mr. Giles’s phone went off. He glanced furtively at Jenny, then pulled it out.

“ _Seriously?”_ said Jenny. “You’re on me about professionalism and then—”

“Not  _now,_ Ms. Calendar,” said Mr. Giles irritably. “I—” He stopped, eyes still on his phone. A soft, slow smile spread across his face.

“What are you doing?” said Jenny, trying to look over his shoulder.

Mr. Giles jerked his phone away from her, going bright red. “Checking email,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

“Does that terrible little flip phone even _have_ email?” said Jenny skeptically. “And since when do you know what email _is?”_

But Mr. Giles had gone back to his phone, still smiling at the tiny screen in a way that, on anyone else, could have been called _smitten_. Uninterested in whatever poor idiot thought Mr. Giles anything close to lovely, Jenny rolled her eyes, turning back to the meeting.

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: Terrible people_

_Elizabeth,_

_Your social situation is nowhere near sad. I have just moved to a new country and my only friend thus far is a pen pal I’ve still yet to meet. Compared to that, a best friend and a cat sounds an incredibly impressive social life, especially since I’m sure both are lovely._

_Tragically, my own situation with my colleague is nowhere near improving. The only solid advice I can give you regarding yours is to ignore the pillock. If he isn’t giving you the respect that your ideas deserve, he isn’t worth any of your time—and if you’re really, truly lucky, someone higher up will pick up on the fellow being terrible and fire him before he makes things at your job even worse. I personally have my fingers crossed for that option; I’ve all but lost patience with terrible coworkers._

_Thank you very much for your inquiries about my daughters! It’s been much too long since I’ve had the opportunity to boast._

_My older daughter is the intrepid adventurer of the family. In England, she spent most of her time exploring the woods behind our house, getting into scrapes with neighborhood boys, and getting stuck in trees. Absolutely none of this taught her to be careful, and I doubt anything really will. It’s all I can do to patch her up when she tumbles into the house for dinner, and I must admit that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Affixing Band-Aids to her arms and knowing that she trusts me to take care of her is an honor I take very seriously._

_My younger daughter is an inquisitive little thing. When first I met her, she was two years old and questioning absolutely everything; now she is five years old and determined to find out all the answers. She’s recently learned how to read, and it’s become a regular occurrence at dinner for her to tell us all about everything she’s learned from whatever book she’s read that day. She says she wants to be a librarian or a teacher when she grows up; I can’t help but be proud._

_Also, I am horrified that you do not make breakfast a regular occurrence. I always tell my daughters that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Is no one cooking you a proper meal? Coffee alone certainly isn’t sustenance enough to begin the day on, and grabbing a pastry before work is no substitute for home-cooked food. I strongly recommend you rethink your morning plans._

_That said: scones are at least a step in the right direction. Well done._

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

* * *

 

Jenny felt incredibly warmed by Mr. Darcy’s indignance. It felt wonderful to have someone frustrated with her in a way that came from a place of care, especially after a good few weeks of having to deal with stubborn, belligerent Mr. Giles.

“Okay,” she whispered. “So maybe it _could_ be a little like that.”

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Breakfasts_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_You talk the talk of a guy who’s learned how to cook. The last time I tried making anything, I all but burned my apartment down, and my best friend never let me hear the end of it. And that was_ before  _I adopted Ada Lovelace (my cat!!). I don’t want to risk the life of my idiot cat baby just for the sake of the most important meal of the day. Once I start dating again, I’ll try and find someone who can pamper me with breakfasts in bed._

_Your daughters sound like forces of nature in the best way, and the way you talk about them is unbearably sweet. Like I said, I’ve been teaching kids for…god, nearly a decade? I feel old. But I’ve met a lot of different parents, and the best ones are almost always the ones who talk about their kids with as much pride and appreciation as you. I say “almost” because there’s a difference between pride and bragging, and a little girl I know has parents who fall more in the category of the latter. I do my best to shower her with admiration whenever she drops by for coding classes._

_And thank you so much for your advice. I don’t want the guy fired, but I guess I just really want him to respect me, and…if that’s never going to happen, you’re right. He really isn’t worth my time. Just like your own terrible coworker isn’t worth yours._

_Liz_

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Breakfasts_

_Elizabeth,_

_All but burned your apartment down? I am positive that you’re exaggerating._

_Learning how to cook is an absolute necessity. I spend every Sunday making lunch with my girls; it is indeed an arduous process, but the eventual outcome is more than worth it. As lovely as it is to imagine finding the perfect chef as a romantic partner, it seems wholly unrealistic. Even if you do stumble across that person eventually, I’m of the mind that you should have at least something of a game plan for the periods between paramours. For now, Ms. Bennet, I would recommend you figure out some easily-prepared breakfast options, if only for my peace of mind._

_With regard to my daughters: your compliments delighted me. As I adopted them both only three years ago, raising them was a daunting, confusing process at first. It warms me to know that someone has some trust in my parenting abilities; I often find myself a bit nervous at the importance of my role in their lives._

_I am sure you don’t want the fellow fired, but I very much do. Anyone who disrespects the contributions of an inventive, innovative coworker doesn’t deserve the job they have._

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

* * *

 

“That guy puts too much trust in you,” said Anya through a mouthful of eggs.

“Stop  _eating_ those,” said Jenny, horrified, and yanked the plate away. “They’re practically _charcoal,_ for god’s sake. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get food poisoning?”

“Can you get food poisoning from charcoal?” asked Anya philosophically. “Better question—why the hell does your Mr. Darcy think you’re in any way able to learn how to cook?”

“He hasn’t met me, remember?” Jenny said wryly. “ _No,_ ” she added to Ada Lovelace, who was sniffing the eggs with interest, and picked her cat up. “You should _know_ better—”

“She can’t. She’s a cat,” Anya reminded her.

“You’d be surprised,” said Jenny, handing Ada Lovelace off to Anya and looking ruefully over at the mess her breakfast attempt had made of her kitchen. “ _Wow,_ this really was a mistake.”

“Got sweet-talked by your perfect paramour?” Anya teased. “Maybe you should ask _him_ to come over and cook for you.”

“Ugh,” said Jenny, burying her face in her hands to hide her smile.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Photo Evidence_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_Attached is an image of my most recent attempt at making breakfast. I am not in any way exaggerating._

_And the way you compliment me, the attentive way you describe your kids, the consideration you put into why you don’t like computers? That’s the mark of a guy who makes careful, informed decisions. That sounds like an amazing parent to me._

_Liz_

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Photo Evidence_

_Elizabeth,_

_Dear lord. The only reason I can tell those are eggs is that one bit that seems to have not cooked at all. How on earth did you manage that?_

_Regards,_

_Mr. Darcy_

_(postscript: I’ve no idea how to respond to such a lovely, kind sentiment. I hope you know that what you said means the world to me.)_

* * *

 

The online catalogue really wasn’t all that hard to figure out, and the dissonance Giles felt using a computer was dulled when he reminded himself of Ms. Bennet’s genuine, adoring defense of the information computers made so easily accessible. Anything that inspired that level of passion couldn’t be quite as bad as he’d been making it out to be.

The best moment of all was when a disbelieving Ms. Calendar rounded the corner, saw that the library was finally open, stared incredulously at Giles (who looked smugly up from his position at the desktop computer), and said slowly, “Are you  _using the catalogue?”_

“Indeed I am,” said Giles, and gave her a self-satisfied smile. “And with no help from you, as it happens.”

Ms. Calendar flushed, looking almost hurt. “I did try to help you,” she began.

“Yes, by calling me computer illiterate and telling me to burn with the Library of Alexandria,” replied Giles, feeling his smile broaden. “And yet here I am, in all my _sparkling_ literacy—”

“Gloating looks almost as bad on you as that jacket,” said Ms. Calendar, and stalked out of the library.

Humming cheerfully, Giles turned back to the online catalogue and began to practice scanning books.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: Ugh_

_Mr. Darcy,_

_Do you ever feel like you just don’t have any impact? I know you told me that I should ignore my terrible coworker, but literally everything he says to me is a reminder that I just can’t reach him. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to prove myself, but he reminds me in the worst way of all the people who looked through me instead of at me._

_This is a downer of an email. I’m sorry. I just don’t have anything happy to write about today._

_Liz_

* * *

 

“How was school?” Giles asked, placing a bowl of salad down in front of Buffy and pointedly ignoring the face she pulled.

“Bo-ring,” Xander groaned.

“Harmony and Cordelia had a fight!” Willow piped up.

“They have a fight every two days,” Buffy informed Giles. “It _was_ boring. We were gonna watch a movie in class today but we had to catch up on the math lesson we missed yesterday ‘cause Larry broke his ankle trying to jump from a desk.”

“Well, yesterday certainly doesn’t sound boring,” said Giles, bemused. “Do people usually jump from desks?”

“The  _boys_ were doing it,” said Willow, wrinkling her nose.

“I wasn’t!” objected Xander.

“Yeah, but you’re not a boy, you’re a Xander,” Buffy reminded him, covertly handing Xander her bowl of salad. Giles placed another one down in front of her. She huffed, defeated, and took a forkful.

“Dawn?” Giles asked.

“I drew a picture for the fridge!” said Dawn, who had very clearly been waiting to say this ever since sitting down to dinner. “It’s you and Buffy and me and Willow and Xander and Janice who sits next to me and tomorrow can Janice come for dinner too?”

“We’ll have to check with Janice’s mum, dear,” Giles answered. He hadn’t _technically_ met Xander’s parents, nor Willow’s, but their awkward expressions when he had broached the question made it rather clear that they weren’t the type of parents who would notice their children missing dinner. This had only strengthened Giles’s resolve to make sure they had a nice place to spend their evenings, if they so chose.

“I wanna—” Dawn winced, then corrected herself. “May I please go get the picture?”

“Of course, darling,” said Giles fondly. “Long as you eat your salad when you get back.”

Dawn half-tumbled out of her chair in her hurry to race for her backpack. Smiling, Giles sat down between Buffy and Xander, serving himself some salad.

“How was _your_ day, Giles?” Willow asked earnestly.

Giles considered the question. “Well, I finally figured out the online library catalogue,” he said. “Felt like quite the achievement. Not that many people use the library at the high school, mind, but it’s still better than having it closed just because I’m trying to set up a card catalogue no one will use anyway.”

“Ms. Calendar mentioned that!” said Willow, grinning. “She said she’s glad the library’s functioning well enough for people to use.”

Giles felt the trademark twinge of annoyance that any mention of Ms. Calendar always brought. He did his best not to show it. “As am I,” he said awkwardly.

“Giles look Giles look Giles look!” Dawn babbled, tumbling into the room and clambering up onto Giles’s lap. Giles gathered Dawn in his arms, steadying her before she could fall. “This is you,” Dawn informed him, pointing to an obscenely tall stick figure that towered over all the others. It had scribbly brown hair and glasses that took up most of its face.

“A remarkable likeness,” said Giles, and kissed the top of Dawn’s head.

“Which one’s me?” asked Buffy with interest, leaning over to peer at the drawing. As Dawn pointed to the figure with yellow hair and what seemed to be a pink dress, Buffy smiled, the reluctant half-grin always present whenever she didn’t want to admit she liked something. “It’s okay,” she said. “I _guess._ ”

Dawn took this as a compliment. “Thank you!” she chirped. To Giles, she added, “Are you gonna put it on the fridge?”

“I,” said Giles, “am going to put this masterpiece up at work, so I can see it _every day._ ”

Dawn beamed.

“Ms. Calendar put my science project in her classroom,” Willow informed the table, a strange, jealous flush in her cheeks as her eyes darted between Giles and Dawn. “She says I’m one of the smartest kids she’s ever seen.”

Giles thought back to Willow’s conspicuously absent parents, and how unbothered Willow was by the concept of missing family time. It occurred to him that, disagreeable as Ms. Calendar was, she was also intelligent enough to figure out what Giles himself suspected: that Willow lacked parental attention and affection. For the first time, he found himself rather liking a decision that Ms. Calendar had made. “She’s a very smart woman, then,” he said to Willow, gentle and warm. “Everything I hear from Buffy suggests that you’re an extremely talented young girl.”

Something in Willow’s face relaxed. “Thank you, Giles,” she said softly, and took a large forkful of her own salad.

* * *

 

It was only after Giles had driven Willow and Xander home, tucked Dawn into bed, and made Buffy promise that she’d go to bed after finishing the episode of She-Ra she was watching, that he finally found his way back to his computer and Ms. Bennet’s waiting email. Seeing it made his heart catch; Ms. Bennet had been nothing but a ray of sunshine in all of her correspondence, and the thought that someone could so tear at her self-esteem without even realizing it…the gentleman was clearly an idiot, whoever he was.

It didn’t take him very long to fire off a reply.

* * *

 

Jenny was half-asleep when her phone buzzed. With a groan, she rolled over onto her stomach, fumbling in the dark until she managed to grab at the end of her charger on her bedside table. Half-yanking her phone over to her, she unlocked it, blinking blearily at the email she’d just received.

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: Ugh_

 

_Ms. Bennet:_

_Don’t undervalue your impact on my own life. Today was the first day I’ve been able to use a computer without feeling ridiculously resentful. That was all you._

_Your coworker isn’t worth reaching, Ms. Bennet. Focus your energies on the people who appreciate you in the way you deserve._

_Warmly,_

_Mr. Darcy_

* * *

 

Something settled itself into Jenny’s chest, a warm, shy, fluttery feeling the likes of which she hadn’t felt since high school. She let out a soft, shaky breath, suddenly _wide_ awake, and sat up in bed, turning on the light and reaching for her nearby laptop.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: RE: Ugh_

_I’m sure you’re asleep right now. I just want you to know how much that meant to me._

* * *

 

To her surprise, not ten seconds after she’d sent off the fragmented email, a reply popped up in her inbox.

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: RE: RE: Ugh_

 

_I keep late hours. I’m glad to hear I could be of service._

* * *

 

Jenny was pretty damn sure she was smiling like an idiot.

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: If you’re still up…_

_…would you want to, like, actually open up a messaging window? It’d be nice to chat in real time, for once._

* * *

 

_To: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_From: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_Subject: RE: If you’re still up…_

 

_I would like that very much. I trust you know how to do such a thing? Helpful as your support has been, there are still quite a few aspects of computers that continue to elude me._

* * *

 

_To: corporealdarcy@gmail.com_

_From: robotlizbennet@gmail.com_

_Subject: [blank]_

_Give me a sec. You’ll get a notification._

* * *

 

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: is this showing up for you?_

_REG: It just did!_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: REG ???_

_REG: The little window asked for my name when I was setting up this email address._

_REG: I gave it my initials; seemed like a reasonable compromise._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: do i get to try and guess what your name is?_

_REG: Guess away._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: reginald_

_REG: It’s not quite as horrifying as that._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: wow. way to dis all the reginalds out there_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: robert_

_REG: Close, but no cigar._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: rumplestiltskin_

_REG: That isn’t even remotely near Robert, you know._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: i take a fiendish delight in being ridiculous_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: esp. when you’re making me guess your name_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: like something out of a damn fairy tale_

_REG: You at least have my initials._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: ok well my name starts with a j and ends with a y_

_REG: Jenny?_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: *gasps*_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: you have discovered my deepest secret!_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: i must retreat into the forest, never to return_

_REG: You are shamelessly dramatic._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: yes, but i make it look *very* attractive_

_REG: Can’t argue with that._

* * *

 

Jenny fell off the bed. It took her a good few minutes to pull herself off the floor and stop grinning.

* * *

 

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: don’t flirt with me at midnight, darcy_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: i get all moony and it’s terrible_

_REG: Should I still call you Elizabeth?_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: i mean it’s your call_

_REG: Then I think I might switch to Jenny._

_REG: Jenny is a lovely name. Very pretty._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: it’s short for guinevere_

_REG: Really?_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: no_

_REG: Thought as much._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: damn! i can get nothing past you, darcy_

_REG: Rupert._

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: so you lied_

_REG: I’m sorry?_

_Robot Elizabeth Bennet: your real name is *just* as horrifying as “reginald”_

_REG: Exactly what I want to hear. Thank you so much._

* * *

 

Jenny entered the faculty room next day in astonishingly good spirits for someone who had gotten all of three hours of sleep. Her mood was helped along significantly by the fact that Mr. Giles looked bedraggled and weary, as though he’d stayed up all night and then some. “Morning, sunshine,” she sang out.

“I have a name, you know,” said Mr. Giles grouchily.

“Yes, it’s _Mr. Giles,_ ” said Jenny helpfully, “and since you’re too snobby to tell me your first name, _Mr. Giles_ is the only thing I ever get to call you. Doesn’t a girl get to be inventive?”

“Inventiveness looks terrible on you,” said Mr. Giles. “And I prefer not to give my first name out to just _anyone.”_

Jenny flipped him off and went to go get a muffin.


End file.
